


Share/Alike

by beaubete



Series: Share/Alike/Play Well (with Others) [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Multi, threesome fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Either, neither--both?  If you can't share with your friends, who <i>can</i> you share with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Share/Alike

**Author's Note:**

> A Valentine's Day present for all of my dearest friends~

It starts, as these things often do, with a touch.  Such a small thing, a hand lingering—Q gives himself a mental shake and reminds himself not to be a pretentious berk.  Of course it was a small thing; he didn’t wake up one morning and decide to have a crush on the man.  Bond probably touches himself to the flag, for crying out loud, and even Q knows better than to get involved in that mess. 

So instead he settles for staring.  He knows that’s what it is, and he knows he’s not subtle.  Bond’s arse is generally capable of drawing eyes like gravitational orbit, and it’s usually cupped lovingly by a wide range of bespoke suits—Q can tell by the button flies, and might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb; it’s not his fault if he keeps staring at the general vicinity once Bond’s turned around—though the one time Q caught him out in slacks, he’d nearly trembled his way to orgasm and stumbled off crying.

Staring it is, then.  And he functions relatively well, his obsession actually making him more focused on his job because he could never forgive himself if his distraction caused a serious repercussion for someone else just because Q couldn’t bring his mind back from where it’s busily writing out detailed stories about licking Bond’s abdomen.  He sighs.  Bond’s abdomen.

Moneypenny is giving him a look again.  It’s a very specific look; he knows its precise meaning—“You’re being a tit-head again”—mostly because she says it aloud each time she gives him the look.

“Maybe he’s the kind of straight that doesn’t think it counts when a gay boy sucks him off?” she suggests  _sotto_.  He kind of really wants to punch her, but she’s the kind of lady who can crack walnuts with her thighs, so he restrains and feels his entire face go pink instead.

“Maybe you’d like your Oyster to keep functioning,” he threatens. 

“Maybe,” she theorizes, drumming her nails on the desktop, “he’s the kind of straight that doesn’t think it counts when there’s a lady between you?”

“Thank you for the application, but I regret to inform you that we’re not hiring right now,” Q snips back.  On the other side of the room, Bond toys with a sleeve holstered knife, flicking it in and out easily.  Q imagines him slipping, but it’s more of an ‘oh no, Mr. Bond, you seem to have accidentally cut all of your buttons off, how ever will you keep your shirt closed now?’ fantasy than it is the medical emergency that it would really be.  Bond swears suddenly, sucking his fingertip ruefully before glancing over at them to see if they’ve noticed.  He freezes under their scrutiny and starts over.  “Shut up, Moneypenny,” Q hisses.

“Shut yourself up, Quartermaster,” she returns just as quietly and just as viciously.

Bond looks confused.  “It pulls left, just a bit.  Doesn’t affect the functionality, really, but it makes it a little more interesting getting it in and out.”

“Does it really?” Moneypenny coos. 

“Shut it, Moneypenny,” Q says.  “I’ll get right on that,” he tells Bond, smile thin and tight.  Bond nods, looks at both of them as if hearing an unplaceable high-pitched sound, and heads out.  Q and Moneypenny lean close together to take in the full picture: today’s a grey wool day, and it clings in all the right places—Q would kill to wrap his legs around that nipped-in waist, and Moneypenny’s gaze lingers hot on the thick of those thighs.  No pants lines.  They sigh together.

“You’ll get right on that, hm?” she muses.  “I bet you will.”

Thus far, Bond seems blissfully unaware that Q would climb him like a tree given half a chance.  He spends his time afield bedding willing ladies and his time at home hiding from M in Q’s office, and his habit of bending over convenient objects never becomes more or less than necessary.  He catches Q looking and smiles, but the innuendo and flirting are saved for when Moneypenny’s around.  Over lunch Q makes her swear to divulge the dirty details if she succeeds.  She rolls her eyes at him and throws bits of bread that cling to his jumper.  Bond plucks crumbs from his hair later and wonders aloud if Q is trying to draw his birds home.

And life goes on at MI-6 as usual: bright young things in pursuit of the protection of Queen and Country; when he finally wraps things up for the evening, turning control over to R’s waiting palm, Moneypenny’s waiting outside the door.  They’re three drinks into their evening and Q is just ramping up toward an actually epic version of his ‘stupid James Bond and his stupidly perfect arse’ rant when she makes a frantic face and a noise like a goose.  It’s not exactly opaque; Bond’s brow is raised when he comes around the table and Q mentally removes another two months’ payments from that twee little yellow thing Moneypenny likes to drive.

“Am I late?” Bond asks, and Moneypenny shoots Q a confused look.  He shrugs back.  “I heard you two go out this time of night and thought I’d join you.”  Bond pauses, hands in his pockets, and Q realizes with a jolt that he’s actually  _nervous_.  “If you’re getting ready to leave, just say the word.”

“Not at all,” Q says as Moneypenny says, “Actually, I was—”  Q glares.  Bond blinks and smiles genially, waving over the bartender who, because he is James Bond and not a scrawny boffin like Q, actually comes over without waving over the bored server instead.  “Please,” Q says as Bond orders.

“I’ll stay for one more,” Moneypenny tells him sternly. 

“Don’t leave me here with him!” Q screeches silently, and Bond lifts an eyebrow again.  Perhaps not silently, then.

“Sorry, Quentin,” she says apologetically, and Q tries not to visibly pout.

“I hate that code name.”

“Qiao, then,” Bond suggests.

“No.”

“Quinnifer?” Moneypenny suggests.

“You will never own a nice thing again,” Q warns.

“Quillan?”  Bond makes a great show of slugging back half of the whiskey that’s taken less time to show up than it took Q to originally summon a server to the table.

“Querida.”  Moneypenny again.

“I hate you both.”

When Moneypenny packs up her purse to go, Bond goes to take care of his bill.  They part at the front door and Bond goes with her, hand easing smoothly into the small of her back as he guides her away.  Q is pissy with her for a week before her hangdog expression through the glass walls that surround Q-branch finally softens his heart.  They don’t talk about it; Moneypenny glances at him furtively when she thinks he’s not looking and he pretends not to notice.

But for Bond it’s business as usual: come to Q-branch, flirt insufferably, and destroy the tech in the field.  He joins them at the pub for the next few weeks, but he doesn’t go home with anyone; he smiles wide at both of them when he sees them in the hall, and he touches Q’s hand to take his gun each time.  Q feels like he’s going to explode; he’s fast running out of times and places to complain about the way Bond’s smile gives him inappropriate erections—every time he starts, Bond appears or he remembers that proprietary hand on her hip and swallows.  He tries to uninvite himself from pub night; Bond appears in his office.

“You’re not coming?” Bond asks, and for once, Q has the foresight to close the door.  It’s no one’s business in Q-branch whether their fearless leader figures out how to navigate the perilous social waters of wanting to be rogered thoroughly by the guy who’s fucking his best friend.

“Can’t.  I’ve a project to complete,” Q lies through his teeth; the look he gets in return is pedantic.  “Something about electrodes,” Q adds unnecessarily.

“This is about me being there,” Bond says.

“It’s not, really.”  It is.  “Not everything’s about you.”  But enough of it is.  He’s been distant with Moneypenny; he misses his best friend.

“You don’t like me.  You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Bond says, frowning.  “I’ll stop showing up if you prefer.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Q blurts, blinking frantic.  “Don’t let’s play that game; Moneypenny might honestly never forgive me.”

“I won’t go if you don’t,” Bond insists.  “Come out tonight.”

“Did that years ago,” Q says breezily, then stops, blinking down at his hands.  Well.  That particular demon’s slipped the box, and all that’s left is hope.  His cheeky grin is a bit threadbare when he passes it to Bond, but Bond only gives him a wry smile and claps him on the shoulder.

“Good.  You look like you could use a drink,” Bond says, already headed out.

“Close the door behind,” Q reminds him as he goes.  A drink? He could use a wank.

He ends up distracted and makes it to the pub after the both of them.  Bond’s wrapping up an uproarious tale that has Moneypenny laughing in that throaty way of hers, but when Q clears his throat, Bond looks up at him, relieved.  “Thought maybe you’d forgot about us,” Bond says, and Q can’t handle Moneypenny’s guilty eyes so he pulls up a stool and orders something potent.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Q says blandly.

He can say he has too many.  Just a few too many.  He remembers the way Bond’s face had changed when he noticed Q standing there, then thumbs out the tiny flicker of hope like snuffing a candle and knocks back another gin and ginger ale.  The juniper sets his teeth on edge. 

“So you’re queer,” Bond begins.  Moneypenny’s jaw drops.  Q hums in acknowledgement.  “Seeing someone?”

“My left hand,” the liquor answers for him.  “It’s rather an exclusive relationship right now,” Q adds, because why not?  If he’s going to be making ridiculous, embarrassing confessions, he might as well pretend he thinks they’re funny. 

“Really?” Bond asks, and Q’s had just about enough of that supercilious eyebrow, ta. 

“Yes, really.  I’m one cat away from being direly pathetic.”

“Only a cat?” Moneypenny manages into the rim of her drink; Q kicks at her and remembers too late that stiletto is also the name of a style of knife.

“Bugger,” he yelps, feeling his shin for blood.

“Well, rather,” Bond agrees.

“Offering?” Moneypenny murmurs.  “Kick me again, Quinn, and I’ll show you the extent of the unarmed combat training I’ve done.”

“Cow,” Q says.

“Moo,” she responds.  Bond goggles between them.

“I thought you two were together,” he admits.

“And invited yourself along anyway?” Q asks.

“To be fair, I sussed out pretty quick that you weren’t,” Bond says.

“By sticking your cock in her,” Q agrees.  The table goes silent.  So do several tables around, and Q wonders whether they ought not find another pub to drink in—if he’s going to drunkenly let slip the secret of his jealous bitterness, what chance do state secrets have?—as Bond stares and Moneypenny studiously avoids his gaze.

“Moneypenny likes boys who like boys,” Bond says finally.  He yelps; Q knows the feeling of a finely-wrought Italian leather high heeled shoe stabbing him in the calf well.

“Let’s not, at least not here,” she says coolly.

“Afterparty at mine, then?” Q suggests, and his blood thrums hard in his ears.

The cab’s backseat is small, thick with tension; Bond sits in the middle with a hand on each thigh and Q tries not to pop a stiffy like a teenager.  The driver drops them off two blocks from his flat and he leads them in the back way, past the Mendelssohn’s’ potted begonias and up the fire stairs to the door that won’t electrocute them.  His flat’s a mess—he’d have cleaned, maybe, if he’d known how the night would go.  Maybe not; he’s been busy—and he sits them on the futon in the living room while he searches the kitchen for anything alcoholic.  All he’s got is vodka, the bottle frostbitten and slick in the freezer, but it’s better than nothing and he grabs a few glasses before emerging to the sight of Bond and Moneypenny pressed together, his wrist flexing in the dark vee of shadow her skirt creates between her thighs.  Q makes a high, desperate sound, and carefully places the bottle and glasses down so he doesn’t drop them.  Bond smirks.

“C’mere then,” Moneypenny offers, reaching an arm out to pull him close.  He hasn’t kissed a woman since uni, when all the kids experiment and he’d learned what it felt like to be pegged by a woman who wished she had a cock; Moneypenny’s lipstick is wax-sticky and clinging as she mouths at him, little whimpers escaping as Bond touches her.  Q sinks to the futon in a daze.

Bond’s hand skitters like a spider from Moneypenny’s lap to Q’s; Q stops him an inch from the rumpled pile of his hardening cock.  “Not so fast, Mr. Bond,” he tries to be stern, but he’s a bit breathless.  “If I’m going to be wanking to this after, I want it to be something worth remembering.”

“I can do it again if you need me to,” Bond says dismissively.  His fingers twitch in Q’s grasp.

“See?  Let the man feel you up, Quinley,” Moneypenny says helpfully.  Q releases Bond’s hand and groans when he palms him, fingers curling to seek out the head and rub tiny circles into it.  Q blinks slowly, watching the hand in his lap, and listens to Moneypenny’s breath speed up.

“You really do like boys who like boys,” he manages. 

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Moneypenny threatens vaguely.  “You are both wearing entirely too many clothes.”

Q gets his cardigan off before he’s distracted by the sight of Bond peeling off his expensive suit jacket.  He touches the fabric reverently when Bond sets it aside, and he gets an odd look for it.  Q smiles self-consciously.  “I’ve wanted to touch for a while now.”

“Surely it’d be better when I’m in it,” Bond says.

“But it’s so nice to see you getting out of it, too,” Moneypenny hums, leaving a red kissprint on the side of Bond’s throat.  Her fingers dip between the buttons of his shirt, coaxing it away to reveal more room to mark.  Q’s fingers flex; he lets himself brush the tips along Bond’s chest and abdomen as they’re revealed, marveling at the way the muscles jump.

Bond stops him when he gets to the top button of his flies, wrapping his fingers around Q’s hand and dragging it up to kiss the knuckles with a sly smile.  Q’s heart skips as Bond leans in, and suddenly Q’s world shrinks to the rough, craggy and chapped lips against his own.  Bond laughs against his mouth as he tips Q back; before he knows it, his shirt is gone and Bond is petting him, mouth playful and hot and slipping down the side of his neck to nip sharply at his collarbone.  His hair is getting long, bristly on the sides but soft and sleek on the top.  Q tangles his fingers into it and pries open his eyes in time to watch Moneypenny unzipping the back of her dress.  His cock gives an interested thump and Bond chuckles again, glancing over to watch the crepe shell fall forward, revealing gorgeous, high breasts that pucker with gooseflesh at the chill in the room.  Her nipples are hard; Q reaches blindly to thumb one and smiles.

“You look a bit uncomfortable, love,” she says, palms skimming over Q’s ticklish ribs to his trousers lifted by his unrepentantly eager cock.  Shifting back, he watches through his lashes as she lowers the zip.  His cock fills the gap in his now-open fly.  Moneypenny’s eyes are dark.  Bond bites his lip.

The dress is tossed carelessly to the floor; they turn to Bond and push him upright together, each button like an advent calendar until Q can see Bond bare, no pants lines because there are no pants, just thick golden curls and a thicker golden cock that’s peering interested through the parted fabric. 

“You slag,” Q breathes in awe, unable to resist the temptation to nuzzle in.  “What a beauty.”

Bond smells heady, deep and musky and mouth-watering.  Q peppers the exposed skin with kisses, breaking away only at the feel of Moneypenny’s hand on him and the slick, wet sounds of Bond resuming his fondling of her.  They’re a debauched pile of government resources curled on his futon, too eager to bother getting the rest of their clothes off as Bond shoves Moneypenny’s knickers aside with his knuckles, she reaches past Q’s zip and through the slit of his briefs, and Q relishes the burn of wool against his cheek.  It’s Bond who caves first, drawing Q back by the hand that’s twisted in his hair, dragging him up for a sloppy kiss and Q whines a little at the thought of a straight man that doesn’t mind a kiss that tastes like cock.

“Christ,” Moneypenny pants, leaning back again.  Her nails are brilliant, blinding scarlet against the black lace of her knickers as she pets herself at the sight.

“You planned this,” Q accuses them both faintly, already dizzy as Bond wraps a loose hand around his cock and pulls.

“Mm, no.  I wish I could take credit for that one,” Bond says between kisses.

“Moneypenny?” Q asks.

“Nothing so solid as a plan,” she confesses.  “Some well-timed talk about blowjobs—I couldn’t share the details; sorry, love—and a wishful prayer….”

Bond laughs again.  “She had me pondering those lips of yours for days.  I bent over nearly everything in Q-branch like a rhesus monkey presenting, but you never took the hint.”

“Showing the wrong end if you wanted kisses,” Q remarks idly.

“Oh,” Moneypenny says, laughing.  “Really, darling?”  Bond looks intrigued.

“Shut it, Moneypenny,” Q manages, blushing. 

“Do I get kisses now, then?” Bond asks, and Q grins, cupping his face to lick into his mouth.  Bond lingers slow, sucking at Q’s lower lip until it feels swollen, puffed and tender and delicate.

“I’m not kissing either of you if that’s involved,” Moneypenny threatens.  Q exchanges a playful glance with Bond and they attack, each picking a part to play.  Q bites love-bruises at the top of her breasts as Bond dips his tongue into her navel; Q’s surprised to realize he can smell her on the air when she spreads her legs.

“Maybe next time,” Bond says, and the promise shivers up the center of Q’s back.  Moneypenny sighs into their touch, Bond’s hands pinning her firmly to the bed and Q’s exploring languidly.  He’s jolted from the perfume-sweet taste of her skin when Bond’s fingers clutch his, guiding them down until his breath catches and Moneypenny gasps.  She’s so hot, so wet; he toys with her absently until Bond sets up a gentle back-and-forth friction that makes her keen.  It’s fascinating, playing her like an instrument.  He glances up to see Bond watching them, silent.

Q touches her, hot with the knowledge of Bond’s eyes, tracing around the slick until he finds her entrance and dips inside.  The clench of muscles is different than he’s used to, the way even a delicate touch makes her legs tremble and the ridges inside cling and pull at him.  It’s powerful, strong and sucking at his fingers until he pushes them deeper.  Moneypenny whimpers in his ear.  Bond is masturbating, and Q wonders if it’s actually possible to combust on the spot.

When he draws his fingers away, they come back slick; he touches them to his tongue and doesn’t taste anything but salt.  She’s touching herself again when Bond brings him over for a kiss; she gives a shuddery cry when Bond presses the condom into his hand and guides it on with Q’s fingers.  Then Q watches that magnificent cock disappear inside and aches with want.

Bond fucks like a machine, like a piston, like he was created for fucking.  His back is a knotted rope of muscles that slide as he pumps into her; Q watches the friction and heat and arousal and blood turn her cunt a pretty, plump pink.  He cups her breast in a palm absently and smiles at the fond look she gives him.  When he kisses her again, she’s soft and open and wet, laughing breathlessly into his mouth until he’s laughing, too.  From the corner of his eye he watches Bond reach down to pet her, and she explodes, moaning into him and grinding up into the touch desperately.  Bond shakes with her, thrusting hard enough that Q suspects she’ll have some interesting bruising tomorrow, and Q moves down to watch her spasm around Bond’s cock until Bond shoves his head away to pull out.  The condom is streaked and wet inside and out; Bond pulls it off easily and ties it off while Q watches, pressing careful kisses to the inside of Moneypenny’s twitching thigh.

“And now for Quathar,” she murmurs, sated, stroking his curls.

He hesitates, tangled in the happy nest of limbs.  His cock is hard, but—“Not necessary,” he tells them, rolling onto his back to take the matter in hand.

“Of course it is,” Moneypenny tells him, frowning.  He can feel her head against his thigh and wonders for a moment the view he’s giving her, but it’s not much different than the one he’s got, so he shifts on the thin mattress to make himself comfortable.

“Absolutely vital,” Bond agrees, and that’s the only warning he gets before he’s being sheathed in latex, the heat of Bond’s mouth close behind.  A sound rips from his throat—it’s not wholly human, he thinks, as Bond does something with the tip of his tongue that makes Q completely reconsider his definitions of the word ‘straight’.  Moneypenny props her head up with a hand, and Q can feel her breath intimately. 

Bond is fantastic at sucking cock.  Of course he is.  Q briefly wonders in despair if there’s anything Bond doesn’t do well, before Bond pulls himself off and gives him a look that could fry an egg.  “D’you think you’re up for it, Q?” Bond asks, and Q nearly asks “For what?” before Bond reaches around behind himself, biceps working in a way that short-circuits Q’s brain and leaves him staring. 

“I,” he says.  “Yes, please.”

Bond laughs, and Q is all too glad to let him take the lead on this, straddling Q’s ribs and giving him a gorgeous view of that cock.  Q lips at it when it passes close enough, and Bond smiles, ruffling his hair with the hand that’s not currently burying fingers two knuckles deep in an attempt to stretch himself out.  “Lovely,” Bond says.  He sinks back onto Q’s cock with a shake of barely restrained control in his thighs.

“Lovely,” Q agrees before squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught.  James Bond is riding his cock, and if he watches, he’s going to come embarrassingly fast.  He listens to Moneypenny in the background again, the wet slide of her fingers, and whines.  She pats his stomach and he spasms, muscles tight with holding back until Bond lifts himself up, then eases back down with a breathy ‘ _fuck’_.

“That’s the idea, Mr. Bond,” Moneypenny tells him and he laughs.  Q gives a tentative thrust that peels a moan from Bond’s soul, and there’re no words after that.  Bond clenches around him; he shoves as much of his cock inside as he can manage; Moneypenny watches and shows them how much she approves with her hands on her own body.  Q can feel it coming sooner than he’d like.  Bond pins him to the mattress and rides hard, unwilling to let more than a few inches escape before he’s pulling Q back in, their bodies slick and sticking with sweat and precome and appreciative smears from Moneypenny’s fingers.  “Come on, then, darling,” she coos, scratching gently at Q’s oversensitive skin.  “We’ve got you.  It’s okay.”

When it finally hits, Q’s orgasm takes his breath away.  It’s the realization: this is Bond in his lap; Moneypenny frigs herself frantically as he shudders into Bond’s embrace, a stiff sweetness taking over his limbs as he comes buried inside him.  Bond follows, pulling at his cock, and Q lies dazed on the futon for a full five minutes, wondering at the static that has replaced his brain.

“That was incredible,” he finally scrapes up the voice to say.

“’Course it was,” Moneypenny says smugly.

“I’d never suspect—” Bond starts, trailing off.  He scratches idly at his pubic hair, and Q reaches over to help him.  Bond squawks.  “No more!  I’m an old man!”

“Too bad,” Q says, tracing Bond’s limp cock against his thigh.

“Our Quinlan is dogged when he gets his heart set on something,” Moneypenny agrees.  “He’s been fixated on you for months now.”

“Moneypenny,” Q splutters.

“Scout’s honor,” Moneypenny insists.

“Really?” Bond asks, reaching down to restart Q’s idle scratching.  He traces Q’s hand along his chest; when he releases it, Q buries his fingertips in his chest hair and wriggles his fingers happily.

“Mmm,” he confesses.

“Would I lie to you?” Moneypenny asks.  Q hopes it’s rhetorical.

“Not after such spectacular payment,” Bond concedes, and Q turns sharp eyes to look at them.

“Happy unbirthday, poppet,” Moneypenny says, pressing a kiss to Q’s sweat-damp brow.  “One secret agent, and he’s all yours.”

“You don’t want him?” Q asks, and Bond laughs.

“Oh, I’ll take him if you don’t, but you seemed pretty tickled with him, so I guess I’ll let you keep him a while longer,” she says gracefully.

“You did plan this!” Q accuses halfheartedly. 

“Only a bit,” she concedes.

“We could share,” Q offers, and Bond laughs again.

“May hold you to that,” she agrees.

“If you two are quite finished,” Bond chimes in, opening his arms for each of them.  Q grins, tucking his head onto a wide shoulder; Moneypenny does the same.  Their fingers tangle over Bond’s abdomen and they sigh.


End file.
